


I don't like it (I gotta, gotta have it)

by oncewewerezombies



Series: Homesmut fills [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia-Focused, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, F/M, Minor Kismesissitude, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Vacillation, The Summoner's Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>GHB pins the Condesce down and cuddles the fuck out of her. She protests, but she secretly loves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't like it (I gotta, gotta have it)

The throne room was gilded in blood, in sweeps and swathes of seadweller violet on her tyrian purple tiles and golden etched sea creatures. She could hear her own voice screaming, the ugly feral sound of it ricocheting off the walls, demanding answers from corpses who had brought her news she did not want to hear. Not this. Not ever again. She’d killed him; she’d watched him bleed out his bright beast blood on the whipping strut, while the skin of his wrists bubbled underneath the heated iron shackles. Destroyed him, ruined the lives of those that had held him dearest, in their perverted mockery of quadratic romance, and his fake-lusus, the snivelling jadeblood who had betrayed her caste and all of her duties to trollkind and the Mother Grub. They had all been cast down underneath her heel like the wriggling noodlebeasts they were. That should have finished it.

_It should have been the end of it._

He was dead, he was _dead_ , he was DEAD! How dare someone bring his words back to life when she’d erased every single one she could find, how dare some lowblood, a warmblood who’d fought for her, who’d gained rank in her armies and some sort of actual worth, who she’d raised up with her own hand, how dare this shitstain bring back those words and rebellion with it. And now they were fighting her because of these poisonous words, killing her soldiers, and now they’d even managed to take a series of towns?! The arrogance. The defiance. Lowbloods should learn to know their place. She’d thought she’d broken them last time. This time, she would _break them_. All of them. Every single troll, every caste and bloodline.

Someone was going to pay for what was happening to her empire right now. It belonged to her, it was _hers_ and she’d let no one take it from her. Not this Summoner, not the Sufferer before him, no one. They were no Heiress who could take her, no, her Mother could cuddle as many as She wanted to Her tentacles, could guide them and love them, the little darling _replacements_. The blood beat and surged in her pan, and all she wanted to do was scream. It was all she could do. There was no one left in the room to kill, and if she left the room...there’d be no one left in the palace, either. 

There was just enough control left in her that she hadn’t opened the door.

If she was going to kill a troll, she preferred it to be because she’d wanted to. Because she’d decided to. Not just because she was lost in this unending rage, frustration beyond what she ever wanted to tolerate. She’d won! Why did this keep coming the _fuck_ up?!

“-gone mad, Highblood, she’s in a rage, she’s already killed a dozen nobles, at least-“

Voices outside in the palace corridor. Prey. More failures that deserved nothing but culling. She strode back and forwards to stalk the length of the throne room, feeling the rage sweep and surge inside her like spring tides. The heels built into the feet of her bodysuit were almost like another clack and rattle hiss just like the one in her throat as they met the floor with the force of her anger-filled strides. Just about chipping the tiles as the deceptively fragile spikes ground and struck splashes of blood up the sides of her feet. Lavender, violet, those lighter shades of purple that were only tones down from her own shade. Nobility, but not royalty. Right now, she was the only motherfucking royal breathing.

“Motherfuck did you tell her, bluebitch?”

Choking sounds. A thump.

The gold of her 2x3dent was cool in her hands, and she swung to hurl it as the door opened. The hiss-click in her throat was a warning sound, while her long hair flared around her in a threat display. The immense troll who’d dodged the tined missile of her weapon didn’t meet it with his own in return, and she snarled at him. What she wanted was him to get mad, give her a fight, give her something to bite and claw and _tear_ , go old school beat down on his ass. He could take it, her Grand Highblood, her big indigo beast. Not like these flukes who’d come to her with news of defeats and worthless deaths of those who belonged to her. They were her property, her troops! Part of her Empire! How dare that shitblood kill them, how dare he?! If she wanted their deaths, they had been hers to take, hers to throw away as she desired, and this was not what she had wanted.

Her golden weapon with its jewelled shaft quivered in the dark old wood of the door, where she’d just missed Makara’s head, spinning crescents of reflected fuchsia moonlight on the floor while it vibrated to stillness. She stormed past him as he stood there, looking at her, just _looking_ at her, so she could grasp it. Curl her fingers around the familiar hilt. Pull it out, stab him through his damn vascular pump. That was what she would do. It was what she’d done to those trolls who’d dared come in front of her with the news that they had, with no idea of how to make it better. Failures. She’d culled them because she could, because she hadn’t the chance to cull the one she wanted to, because they were there.

Later, it would be problematic. Later, she’d have to cull some quadrantmates, she was sure. Later, she’d have to pacify down her sea troll courtiers, her captains and generals. But that was later. Now, all she had wanted was their deaths and she had enjoyed taking them, as was her right as Empress. Every troll under the twin moons was hers, and she’d kill every one of them if they failed her. Failed her Empire. She would _make_ them strong, she would make them a force that would take the stars. They were already spreading out into the universe as conquerors, and she would not have it disrupted by a scumblood rebellion in her home port that her underlings seemed too useless to control.

Maybe they were traitors. Quadrants to traitors. Maybe that was why. It was like a rot in her realm of worlds, these crimson tainted words. He’d had blood like an animal! Why would any decent sort of troll follow him?

There’d been so many and _she just couldn’t seem to excise the infection from the host_.

“You cold seagoat, you clownfish, you dare to cone fin port of minnow! I shoal-d cull you pike those moray-ons!” Before she could grab the shaft of her 2x3dent, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up against his body. Shrilling chirps of rage burst from her throat and she swung one leg up against the wall to push herself back, try and eel her way up and around to claw his face, bite out his throat. Two strong arms surrounded her, enclosed her while she shrieked and kicked, trying to get the right leverage so she could tear herself free. The muscles of her abyss-bred body strained against the slick black fabric of her bodysuit, the hot pink lines rippling at the sides. Across her chest. Her sign in her blood colour, emblazoned across her entire body in a ringing declaration of who she was. Every finger, every part of her dripping with gold, with precious gems drilled through the sensitive shafts of her horns. “I am y-oar Empress!”

“Sure are, fishtits.”

“Punt me down!”

“Nah.”

“RIG-HT PROW, MAKARA!”

She kicked backwards and heard him grunt but the thickly muscled arms holding her own against her sides, holding her up so her feet dangled above her throne room floor, didn’t shift. There was a lot he could ignore, in terms of pain, a little kick wasn’t going to get him to do much. If he’d wanted to, he could have sank his fangs into the back of her neck by now, and. And he hadn’t. She’d left her back wide open, she’d walked past him as though he was a stone and left herself open to this. 

What was wrong with her? Why had she let him do this to her? He was treating her like a glubbin’ grub!

He knew how dangerous she was, just how dangerous she was and what a lethal killer, he’d fought alongside her before and admired her skill the same as she’d done to him. (Once she’d told him he fought like a girl and she would swear she’d seen him blush with pride at the tips of his rudimentary ear-fins.) If she’d had the restraint to give orders, she would have ordered him to stay outside. The rage in her was beyond pitch, the way they did things, and what she begrudgingly felt about him wouldn’t save him from her now. She wanted him dead for holding her back, for pulling her into her throne and his lap as he seated himself and wrapped his arms around her like her lusus’ tentacles had wrapped around her in when she’d thrown wriggler-tantrums. She was trapped, and even when she dug her claws into the undersides of his thick arms, his muscular thighs, bit down and gnawed on his forearms, he held her in his lap. There was blood in her mouth, staining his clothes, dripping that dark purple-almost-blue on hers as well.

You’d never see the stain on the black slick fabric that followed the lines of her body like a second skin, it would disappear like luminescent swirls had once dissolved into the moonlit sea under her watchful eyes. Like they still did, but Meenah never went to make sure that lusii were fed to her Mother now. Her Orphaners took care of that for her. They fed the Horrorterrors’ Emissary in Her sleep, and She was quiet, although sometimes she heard Her sing. Softly. Of things she now ignored. She had an empire to run, and she would always love her mother (kind of) (in a resentful way), but she had things to do. 

He was crooning into the shell of her ear while her fins flapped in semaphore patterns of caution and danger, deadly predatory warning flaring against his face, as she screeched doom and his bloody death at her hand, fangs bared and dripping indigo gore down her chin. Lip prints of fuchsia smudged underneath the blood as it welled to the surface of his torn black skin. Hers, he was hers, they were all hers, they belonged in her grip! Under her control! She screamed, and heard the sound bounce off the tiled walls with their underwater-themed mosaics and back to her, confusing and disorientating. Every sound was making her head ring, spasm, while she tossed her long, arched horns and tried to gore him but he just settled his chin between the bases of them and continued to ramble about the Messiahs, about wicked mirth and culling and slaughter, about Faygo and stardust, about fucking _miracles_.

Glub, she hated it when he talked about miracles. He could just do it for so damn long. It was the most annoying thing about him. Sometimes he just wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t say a fucking word, and then he’d come out with this long rambling rave about things she couldn’t care less about. Her amount of fucks to give were minus when it came to miracles and his cod damn Church.

His arms held her tight, close, down, under control as her rage escaped out between her fuchsia-streaked lips like a deluge of venom. Thrashed and kicked and tried viciously to hurt him until she was spent, panting for air as the gills on her neck fluttered uselessly, the expansive fins that outlined the sides of her face flapping up and down as she tried to suck in air. Not as sweet as salt water running through the edges of her opercula, the deep oxygenation that came through her gills when she was swept away in the arms of the sea. Like she hadn’t been for sweeps. His arms held her like her lusus’ tentacles once had, like the pressure of the deeps had surrounded her on every side. Locked down and held like she was precious. As if she had worth.

Silence reigned in her corpse-littered throne room, except for her hoarse breaths. 

“You gonna listen to a motherfucker now?”

The corner of her lip curled, and she could never have admitted to a single living breathing body how secure she felt in his arms as one broad thumb rubbed into the base of her horn. It made a shudder race down her spine as sanity returned, the rage receded, as the deep bone-chilling anger that had swept over her as her courtiers had tried to explain just how badly the nobility had failed to hold the Suffering rot in check slowly ebbed. All she could trust, as much as she loathed to admit it even to herself, was her clowns. They did what she told them, exactly what she told them to. Thanks to her glorious monster of a Grand Highblood.

She couldn’t lie to herself; she was a monster too.

“Go fuck yourself with a rusty marlinspike. _Right_ up your cod damn gaping monster cavern of a nook.”

“Mm. You’d know all about my fuckin’ nook, my hungry fishbitch.” His breath was marginally warm against her skin, even though he was up at the high end of the hemospectrum. After all, she was the highest point. Weren’t no motherfucking bitch colder than she was. Her nook was a thing of glaciers, her bulge an iceworm. She was an iceberg; nine tenths of her power to create apocalypse hidden under the tide line. “I didn’t see this coming like this, Meenah.”

“Ya fuckin’ fin-k, you cod damn CLOWN?!”

“Neither did you, sisbitch.”

That hit her like a punch in the guts and she sucked in a breath, felt her fins flutter with distress and dug her claws vengefully back into his thighs. Even if she’d backed off the edge of her rage, she was still pissed off. She wouldn’t cease to be pissed off until someone tore the bronze wings off that fucking mutant-traitor and laid them at her feet. At this time, she was betting on the odds that the Most Mirthful Motherfucker would be the one laying them down at her beautifully fuchsia, most delicately high-heeled boots. Her nobleblooded violets seemed to have become utterly fucking useless.

“I gave him his glubbin’ rank,” she snarled, and felt him twitch as she raked her claws up his thighs. This wasn’t the worst she’d damaged him, she’d done far worse when they were deep in pitch, sunk in the abyss of caliginous romance with each other. This pain she was giving him was just. Stress relief. “ _I raised him up_.”

His mouth bit down on her shoulder, grinding into her skin through the thick material of her suit and Her most motherfucking Imperious Condescension groaned at the feel of it. “I did. Something. A bit. Fucking more.” It was like it was dragged out of him by a hook on a long line, and she let out another groan. This time more frustrated and annoyed than potentially lustful.

“Kurloz.”

“Meenah.”

“You glubbin’ didn’t.”

“...”

“You glubbin’ did NOT. Tell me you didn’t put a shitblood in a quadrant.” Silence. She let out a shriek of frustration and slapped her hand against his knee. He’d shifted to just one arm against her chest, while one hand rubbed the bases of her horns, up the beginning of one elegant spike and then the other. Despite herself, she could feel the pale feelings dragging her down into something like submission. Like the calm at the bottom of an undertow. “No! You prow glubbin’ swell betta!”

“...ain’t gonna lie, wicked titty sister.” A huff of a breath and a lick of a long agile tongue, right around the base of her horn. Meenah feel her back arch, her shoulders rise. That was far too close to something concupiscent, that was. And she’d thought they were being all conciliatory right now. “...black.”

“Nngh! You. You!” She wriggled around in his lap to face him now he wasn’t holding her so tight and slammed her hands against his chest. Compared to him, she was slight and small, even while she towered over most trolls. He was just a motherglubbin’ monster now he’d reached his full height and breadth and weight. “I fuckin’ own you, beach!” She grabbed his hair and yanked him down into a kiss, shredding his lips with her shark teeth. Chewed him to pieces and felt him rumble, growl into the kiss. “I have an out-sand-in’ motherglubbing clam on y-oar spade, Makara, and don’t you fuckin’ fo’c’net it.”

“Two quadrants at once? Greedy fishbitch.” His tongue snaked around hers like an eel in weed, and she grinned. Hungry and dark. Her mouth was full of his blood and hers now, and she was teetering between pacified and pitch-drunk. With his immense hands rubbing on her back, and then right into her hair and up to her horns, she was falling back into soporific pacification slowly but surely and she didn’t want to resist. “I’m gonna catch you a flying pattern-wing bug, blackest of most motherfucking precious diamonds, so you can see the moonlight through them in the windows of your respiteblock.”

“Oh yeah?”

“And I’m gonna put up a wide rack of horns from that tinkerbull of a Cavalreaper right up on my chapel wall.”

“Mmm.” She kissed him, pulled on his curlingly outrageous mane of hair and felt her energy drain away like it was disappearing down a drain in the floor. After this, she felt like she could sleep for sweeps. Let him take over for a while. Even on her pitchiest of days, she could never doubt his loyalty. He was hers, hook, line and fucking sinker. “Oh yeah, Makara?”

“Motherfuckin’ bet on it, Peixes.”


End file.
